


An Unlikely Alternative

by robotfvckers



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Sex, Bodily Fluids, Cloaca, Coercion, Desk Sex, Dirty Talk, M/M, Office Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Salarians, Semi-Public Sex, Squirting, Threesome - M/M/M, Turians, Xenophilia, it's fucky, quid pro quo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 05:01:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13674777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotfvckers/pseuds/robotfvckers
Summary: “Salarians barely sleep, but I know you’re not even getting the minimum. Makes me wonder what else you’re not getting.”The way Kandros says it in his flanged tones warms the director’s face.





	An Unlikely Alternative

**Author's Note:**

> A comm for anonymous on tumblr. Thank you!

****The door hisses open, but Jarun doesn’t look up. For one thing, he cannot see it, his office space sequestered into a private alcove. For another, people come and go frequently in Pathfinder Hall, either to view Ryder’s progress or hold meetings when there was, unfortunately, nowhere else to have them.

The door hisses shut, and just as well: Jarun is busy reviewing reports, growing more annoyed by the second. Kesh’s upgrades were days behind, and all she had offered were derision and excuses. _Everyone_ was tired, overworked, shaken from the numerous setbacks, and it was his job to make sure that some semblance of calm remained within their ranks, lest another mutiny occur. Her operations team could cost them, _him_ , everything.

The sound of footsteps overtakes the quiet hum of the hall. Jarun stares at the blinking screen on his desk, waiting for Kesh to answer.

“Please, Ira, not now. I am making an important call.”

His aide does not respond. Instead, a large, alien finger presses the dismiss button on his screen. Jarun’s attention snaps to the other side of his desk.

“Kandros,” Jarun says, shock mellowing into a sneer. “What do you think you’re doing?” The turian doesn’t seem angry or combative as usual, his piercing eyes inquisitive.

“I’m tired of fighting.” Kandros says. “You’re tired too. The nexus is a mess, but it’s our home for now, better or worse.”

Another figure ascends the ramp towards them, tall and thin, a salarian, helmeted and clad in a dark suit.

“One of my architects, Mital Tazu.” Kandros says, nodding to his teammate.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Jarun says, unable to hide the suspicion in his voice.

The bad blood between them is hard to ignore, but Kandros is right. He _is_ tired.

“Salarians barely sleep, but I know you’re not even getting the minimum. Makes me wonder what else you’re not getting.”

The way Kandros says it in his flanged tones warms the director’s face.

“What are you talking about?”

Kandros leans over his desk, brushing his gloved palm over Jarun’s knuckles. The director tugs his hand away. The turian smirks.

“Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“This is ridiculous. Salarians don’t copulate outside of breeding contracts.”

Mital snorts, and Jarun feels the paler spots of his face flush green.

“Apologies, Director. That’s just so old school.” The architect’s soft, wispy voice filters through the his helmet.

“I’m not asking for much.” Kandros says. “Just consider my suggestions more often, lean on Ryder when she’s undecided. I’ll... _we’ll_ make it worth your while.”

The window across from his desk slides shut right before the room goes dark. Auxiliary power kicks on seconds later, casting the hall in a dim blue glow.

“Power’s out. Video feeds are on loop.” Mital says.

“Nice work,” Kandros replies.

Jarun whips his gaze between the two of them, jaw flexing as he narrows his eyes. Is Kandros trying to embarass him? He couldn’t possibly be offering a _salarian_ sexual favors. He doesn’t need this, not really. It would be better to send him away, report him for such an offer.

“Your joke isn’t funny. Please see yourself out.”

Kandros moves, but it isn’t away. The turian rounds his desk, and even shorter, he is stouter, stronger by far.

“I-I said—!”

Kandros captures Tann’s chin in his grip, doubling down as the director tries to pull away.

“Would I go this far for a joke?” Kandros murmurs, breath ghosting over Tann’s lips.

Teeth descend on his neck, and Jarun plants his hand on Kandros’ chest, shoving as the turian’s tongue follows teeth, sucking and scraping his skin. He gasps, the sound foreign in his tympanum, warmth at his neck shifting, pooling between his hips.

“W-wait.” Tann stammers.

If Kandros did this—his mind races, trying to come up with something, anything, that would sway him. It’s improper, a breach of protocol, too messy, but so is this whole damn journey. Nothing by the book has worked, the book had been destroyed when Jien Garson and her inner circle died.

Tongue and teeth steal his thoughts, summoning instead each time he was ever needy and left wanting, at once potent and consuming.

The hand at his chin slides around his waist, dipping down the small of his back. A thick-muscled thigh sliding between his own, shocking a weak stutter from his hips. Still, he cannot give up his perfunctory struggles, even as Kandros shifts his leg maddeningly, rubbing his cloaca through his uniform.

“Why are you fighting? You want it. I can tell.”

The salarian squeaks, given no time to think as Kandros latches onto his neck just above his collar, his hand cupping between his legs.

“I can make it easier for you.” Kandros says against the side of his head, fingers drawing lines across his cloaca, Jarun’s grip shifting to his shoulders, just holding on, wondering if the turian could feel how hot he’s becoming. “It’s hard, right? Making all the decisions…”

Kandros shifts him, and Jarun _lets_ it happen, bent over his desk before he can blink, fingers grabbing the edge of its surface. The room’s chill sends shivers along his skin as Kandros peels him out of his uniform and nudges his legs apart, earning a gasp, high-pitched and mortified. It’s terrifying how easy it is, just experiencing, just letting Kandros handle him, let his mind focus solely on feeling.

He groans as Kandros tugs aside one slim, pale cheek, inspecting him.

“Seems a bit small.” Kandros says.

“All salarians are like that.” The architect replies, closer than Jarun expects.

Jarun jolts forward as warm, wet bluntness drags across his cloaca. Kandros shushes him, rubbing his lower back in comforting circles, pinning him in place.

“Gotta admit, Tann.” Kandros hums as he drags his thumb, it must be, not a catch of claw to be felt, though it doesn’t make Jarun any less nervous. “This part of you is kinda cute. A nice, pretty slit. Doesn’t look like it’s been used a day in your life.”

Jarun wants to say something smart. Contracts, low sex drives, anything—but he can’t find his words, razor-focused on the insistent, gentle swipes between his cheeks. He doesn’t remember the last time—he does, but he can’t let that memory into his mind now, not when he’s bent over his desk while citizens pass by none the wiser.

The thumb dips into his cloaca, ripping a hot, weak sound from his throat.

“It’s better like this. Just letting someone take care of you...”

Jarun shakes, the finger still barely teasing him, the same back and forth motion except it’s parting his cloaca, the rough, slick digit growing warmer by the second. He bites the inside of his cheek, unable to stop the needy tremble of his body as Kandros continues to play with him, slower, gentler than he’s ever had it. Slip-press. Slip-press. Cupping the entirety of his cloaca with a curious sound.

“Spread your legs for me.” Kandros orders.

Jarun obeys, body blotching with shame, worsening when the thumb teasing him starts to press harder, more insistently. There’s a brief second of no contact before something larger returns: fingers with claws buffed down. Jarun has a second of relief before Kandros pushes them just inside, grinding and twisting them together. He bites his lip so he won’t cry out as Kandros begins to massage softness into his cloaca, his body plumping and warming before their eyes.

“See? Not so bad.” The architect says. “Probably never been touched outside of contract. It can be fun. Promise.”

Jarun buries his face into his desk, wishing he could block them out, wishing they would just shut up and quell the ache pulsing through his insides, needier than he’s ever been in his life.

“Hold your hands behind your back.”

Jarun’s fingers twinge when he unclasps them from the desk, slowly, shakily crossing his arms behind him, like his body’s moving on its own, allowing this to happen. He _wants_ it, to be controlled, to be at his subordinate’s mercy. Kandros spreads Tann’s cheeks with his free hand, his cloaca spreading for him as the turian watches and teases.

“Do you know how you look now, director? Your slit’s all swollen. Listen…”

He withdraws his fingers in a single, slow slide, a quiet _pop_ sounding in the alcove  as his cloaca grips them to the very last. Kandros repeats the motion, dipping his fingers, lube and Jarun’s own slick leaking from his slit that’s beginning to ache, puffy and hot to the touch. He whines into his desk, mind and heart racing.

“Maybe all you needed was a good, hard fuck, huh? Someone to put you in your place.” He whispers.

Jarun whimpers, and the hand spreading him strokes his flank.

“Ssh. All you have to do is ask.”

Kandros shallowly fucks his fingers inside him, too distracting for Tann to notice the sound of fabric parting. A heavy, hot weight lands on Jarun’s ass with a smack, sliding between his cheeks, just brushing the top of his cloaca. His—it’s big, gently curved at the tip, the texture foreign, unbelievably warm—

“Please, I—”

Kandros sighs, grinding against him, something thicker, slicker than lube leaking down his cloaca, warming his already engorged slit, the sensation molten, has Jarun balanced on his toes.

“Beg. _Please fuck me, Kandros._ ”

He grabs his wrists, tugging the salarian against his cock, the length of it catching along his cloaca, too warm, his slit parting around it. Tann gnaws on his lower hip, holding out on that one, painful vestige of stubborness for several heartbeats.

“Pl-please fuck me, Ka-kandros.” Jarun nearly sobs.

“So sweet when he’s about to get what he wants, isn’t he, Mital?”

The architect’s laugh wheezes through his helmet.

Jarun blinks rapidly, barely able to process their words, not when Kandros hasn’t stopped grinding against him, forcing his hips to meet each thrust. Then he recedes; the angle shifts. Deep, unbelievable pressure. Jarun breathes through his teeth, body resisting for a long, terrifying moment until tip of Kandros’ cock pops inside.

Jarun _keens_.

“Damn—tight.”

“We aren’t really made for insertion.”

Their conversation is thousands of miles away while Kandros sinks inside him, butter-soft and clutching to every inch, fluttery, disbelieving gasps echoing in his tympanum. It doesn’t hurt, not really, only a stretch, a feeling of unbelievable fullness that reaches all the way to his stomach. Finally, finally Kandros’ hips settle against his ass. Jarun dares not move, each muscle clenched, quaking around the the intrusion. He doesn’t realize he’s babbling until Kandros speaks.

“Give him something to do with his mouth.”

Fabric creaks when the architect grabs his horns, urging his head up. Jarun’s met with the green and white belly of one of his own and a cloaca to match, spotted and flushed.

“C’mon, director. Show me some support.”

The architect doesn’t wait, urging his slit against Jarun’s trembling mouth. He offers his tongue as Kandros starts to move, a deluge of begging muffled into the hot clutch of another’s faintly sweet slit. Kandros withdraws slowly then snaps forward, settling a brutal, reckless pace. The hand at his wrists tightens, using it as leverage to tug Jarun back each time, forcing him so deep he aches, a delicious spark battered inside him. The architect will not be deterred, tugging Jarun’s horns to keep his mouth buried in his cloaca as Tann struggles to work his mouth properly.

The insistent heat between his legs grows stubbornly, swelling, especially when Kandros presses him flat to the desk and fucks him harder, deep, lightning-fast motions that have him thrashing, pleasure overtaking all else. The brutal position has Kandros’ cock brushing something deep in him, something that makes his eyes roll back and guts squeeze, aching, urging—Jarun wrenches his face from the other’s slit, shouting in his freckled skin, harsh, desperate gasps as his cloaca _seizes_ —the sensation instantly recognizable but so violent it _hurts_.

A groan rips from Kandros’ throat as Tann clutches and massages his cock, better than he could’ve dreamed, a flood of slick sluicing around it, painting Tann’s abused slit and inner thighs in viscous green. If he thought Tann was smooth and supple, he’s near frictionless now, a hot, slick clutch made just for him.

“Did he—” The salarian laughs, breathless as he grinds against Tann’s mouth. “Y-yeah, I can smell it. So sweet, director.”

Jarun can’t respond, trapped on the rippling of his insides even as they fade. The thrusts almost hurt now, too sensitive, his insides primed but it’s too soon after to come. The director whimpers, high and hard into the architect’s slit, tongue catching hot and irregular against him, and the grip behind his head tightens, hurts, then thick, sweet liquid floods his mouth. His struggles are useless as the salarian smashes his face flush against him, his own quiet whimpers hissing out of his helmet.

“S-swallow. Drink me up.”

The first gulp settles in his stomach, warm and thick, filling him further where Kandros’ cock buries itself; spots dance in front of his eyes, everything softening at the edges, world narrowing to the cock still pistoning inside him. He coughs weakly when the architect lets him breathe, but his fingers shift to cradle his face, watching him grimace and moan as Kandros has his fill.

“You were so good for me, director.”

“My turn,” Kandros says, gravel-rough, thrusts growing staccato-like, unpredictable, too quick.

Jarun can’t speak, only shakes his head in disbelief, sensation mounting again. He chokes, whimper caught in his throat, as the turian shoves deep and holds, pinning him with his entire body. Jarun clenches one final time, and that’s all it takes for Kandros to moan into his shoulder, cum splattering, flooding him, his cloaca one hot throb that has him quaking with silent keens. Kandros crushes him to the desk, rocking in small bursts, milking every last drop out of his dick and into the twitching mess of his director.

When he finally pulls out, fluids hit the floor in an obscene deluge.

“Wow, didn’t realize I was so pent up too.” Kandros strokes his ass, and Jarun tenses, more slick and cum spilling from his absued slit, joining the mess on the floor, some remaining in thick, messy lines beneath his hole.

Kandros catches his breath while he inspects the mess he’s made of the salarian that had fought him at every turn for months, leaking and twitching, begging for more.

“Anytime, this can be yours, Tann. Whenever you need it.”

Jarun whimpers.

“After all the meetings and tribunals, I could fuck you like this, let you enjoy powerlessness for a while. No thinking, just feeling.”

Kandros drags himself off Tann, the numbness in his wrists prickling as the cold office settles over his sweat-slick skin.

“Think about it, will you?”

Footsteps echo down the ramp. The main power returns, the normal hum of order settling over the hall.

“See you tomorrow, Tann.”


End file.
